Chapter 49

Iwake in a haze, my mind fluffy like the blankets swathed around me and the pillow tucked beneath my head. To the warm brush of evening sunlight pouring through a large window, kissing my cheek, igniting an eddy of dust mites swirling through the air.

Where … am I …

I reach up to rub my aching throat, wincing when my hand brushes the bandage and disrupts the wounds beneath. Visions flash, hard and brutally fast:

Vanth’s flesh melting off his bones as he burned to a crisp.

Sinking to the bottom of The Bowl, trapped in a body that didn’t work.

Cainon’s weight upon me as I scrambled to get free, poison dribbling down the back of my throat.

Calah crunching down on my neck.

Zane falling.

Reaching.

Each memory strikes like an arrow through my chest—so hard and fast I can’t catch a breath before another one hits.

Rhordyn … alive. Charging me against a tree. Lashing emotions that stripped me bare.

Telling me Baze and Zane are okay.

The last hits like a hammer to my ribs, crushing them.

Too good to be true.

Was it all a dream? Was it just my imagination playing tricks on me?

Panic flays me down the middle as I scramble through my muddy mind, struggling to pull air into my lungs. Reaching for the back of my arm, I’m about to pinch when I finally draw a whittled breath through my nose—him.

So much him.

I sit up, the double bed I’m lying on tucked in the corner of what appears to be a small wooden cabin, Rhordyn’s sword leaning against the wall by the only exit. A barrel nests beside the bed, boasting a bowl of plump red berries, a glass of water, and a propped-up fold of parchment.

A note bearing two beautifully scrawled words that loosen the rope bound around my throat:

I grab it, tuck it close to my chest, look at his sword, breathe—in through my nose, out through my mouth …

Breathe …

He’s here.

It wasn’t a dream.

Nursing the note like a bandage pressed upon my heart, I continue steadying my breaths with large doses of him, gaze skimming my cramped confines.

The large window overlooks the jungle beyond, the trees far enough away that I think this must have been built in a clearing. There’s a workbench that runs along that entire wall, a sink in the middle—just beneath the window—the rest of the space cluttered with tools and weapons and crockery, along with chunks of glass, cracked lanterns, and jars of fruit and preserves.

The back wall has a small dining table pushed against it, as well as a freestanding stove with a chimney punched through the roof and a soft seater that’s seen better days—the brown fabric patched in places. Strings of drying herbs crisscross the ceiling, spicing the air with botanical smells that remind me of Stony Stem.

My heart pangs at the thought.

Even though the place is packed full of somebody’s life, there’s an emptiness about it. A hollow aura that makes me think it hasn’t been inhabited for a long while.

Rhordyn must have brought me here after I passed out from—

Avoid.

I’m okay.

I’m fine.

Clearing my throat, I tilt the glass to my lips and drink, the crisp, nectarous water slipping down my throat like a gift straight from the Gods.

I swear, Rhordyn’s got a magic pouring touch.

A brutal heartbeat of sharp splitting sounds comes to me just as I pick up on the hint of smoke staining the air. Frowning, I set my empty glass down, as well as the note, and ease off the bed. The wooden floorboards are a strange mix of rough and smooth beneath my feet—like they were harshly milled but have seen the wear of so many steps their sharp bits have been buffered down.

Cradling the bowl of berries close to my chest, I place one in my mouth, moaning at the sweetest, most sensual burst of deliciousness that has ever graced my taste buds as I move through the room. I still before the window, looking past powdery rays of the setting sun and into the clearing beyond, softened by tall tufts of wildgrass and little white flowers that look like sprinkled stars.

There’s a small campfire raging within a ring of charred stones, a few stumps of wood scattered about like rustic seats. A metal brace saddles the fire, supporting a black stockpot, whatever’s inside spilling a waft of steam.

Two skinned rabbits are laid out on a chopping board, their pelts lumped to the side. Behind it, Rhordyn …

Shirtless.

Sun-kissed.

Slicked in sweat and soot.

A tower of dark muscle savagely maiming me with each sacrificial sweep of my eyes. I consume him like I did that water, gulping greedily.

Selfishly.

He dumps an armful of firewood on a pile, then pauses, looking to the side, as though he’s listening to a secret whispered on the wind.

I lean closer to the window, biting down on another soul-melting berry as he dashes sweat from his forehead, then walks to an axe lodged in a stump. He rips it free.

My heart stills.

It glints in the sunlight as he swings it high, his entire body a force of rippling brawn, followed by the splitting sound of the stump breaking apart.

Avoid.

I turn from the scene, rubbing the tightness from my chest, bowl of berries forgotten.

Seeking a distraction, I walk to the stack of weapons and run my fingers along the lengths of some short spears, a dagger, and a plain thin sword. The entire thing is shorter than my arm and riddled with nicks and dents, but when I grip the unbound hilt, holding the sword before me, it feels balanced in my hand.

“Not bad,” I murmur.

I move farther along the workbench, stealing another glance at Rhordyn through the window, enjoying the way his powerful body moves as he picks up a piece of half-split wood and pulls it apart with his bare hands—so beautifully barbaric. A delicious shiver crawls down my spine and settles between my legs, making me ache in places that send a flush of warmth to my cheeks.

My hand sweeps across the coarse bristles of something, and I cut my gaze to a brush, its handle bound in a Bahari blue hairband. My blood curdles as I’m battered by thoughts of Cainon’s hands in my hair, taming it into tight braids that made my scalp hurt.

Avoid.

I shake my head in sharp, jerky motions, trying to rattle the thoughts off their perch, flicking another hateful glance at my cupla. I try to tug it free again while scanning the collection of tools poked into small, hollowed-out stumps.

My eyes narrow on a chisel and hammer.

Perhaps I can … chip it loose?

Finding an oily rag in one of the containers, I wrap it around the chisel’s handle, set the sharp end against the cupla’s chain, and curl my fingers around like a claw, keeping the chisel in place. I aim the hammer, stealing a quick glance at Rhordyn before I swing at the same time he does.

My feeble grip on the chisel slips, the sharp end slashing a gash in my wrist before clattering to the floor.

“Shit.”

Wincing, I use the cloth to stem the blood, Cainon’s cupla still firmly clamped around my wrist.

Well, that was a waste of time.

“What are you doing?”

I almost leap out of my skin, knocking the hammer onto the floor in a clatter. My cheeks burn as I turn to face Rhordyn in the doorway, stuffing my hands behind my back, heart pounding hard and fast.

He’s all bulging muscles tailored to perfection, sweat running through the trail of dark hair that threads a line from his belly-button down …

“Orlaith.”

My eyes snap up, delving into his fathomless black pools.

I yearn to see the silver again. I don’t know why he’s hiding it from me.

“Nothing,” I blurt, tightening my grip on the cloth. “Where are we?”

He walks forward, slowly.

Predatorily.

The hairs on the back of my neck lift.

“Abandoned cabin. I cleaned up while you were sleeping.”

The words are crushed velvet, too deep and dark to be presented so quietly. And when fused with the way he’s prowling toward me, I’m half certain my spine’s about to give out.

He holds my eye contact until we’re standing chest to chest, every breath erasing the space between us. Gently, he lifts his hand and reaches around the back of me.

My heart lurches, though I keep my face smooth.

Impassive.

I hold his shadowed gaze while he takes my fragile wrist in the crushing might of his large, calloused hand, except he’s not crushing me at all. His grip is almost … tender. Like I’ve imagined he cossets the coal when he’s sketching.

For some reason, it makes the backs of my eyes sting.

I blink, but continue to hold his gaze, something in those inky depths screaming for me to trust him.

Problem is, I don’t trust myself. Not now.

Not ever.

“I’ll wait forever, Milaje.”

The words are butter soft. Salt to my wound. When did he learn to handle sentences with such care? Why now?

I’ll wait forever …

The messed-up thing is, I believe him. And I can’t stand this tension for another minute, let alone forever.

Slowly, and with my pulse raging in my ears, I drop the cloth and release my arm, allowing him to pull it between us, baring the wound in my wrist that’s leaking a line of blood.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The darkness in his eyes bleeds into the skin surrounding them, his canines sliding down so fast I get a chilling visual of how quickly he could rip into somebody’s throat. He releases a rumbling sound so deep I feel it vibrate through my bones.

He looks at me in a way that breaks me down into tiny bits. “Did you do this on purpose?”

My breath hitches, heart thunders. All the softness has gone from his words—now sharp and hard like the axe he was wielding.

“What? No! I—”

His thumb brushes the side of my wrist where a bruise is blooming from all the times I tried to wriggle my hand free.

He frowns. “Milaje, you just unclip it.”

Fuck.

Gently turning the cupla, his frown deepens. He touches the clasp, then pulls his finger back, revealing a stamp of burnt flesh.

He goes deadly still, his energy filling the room so fiercely I can hardly breathe.

“I— I got caught without it, and Cainon—”

My words clog my throat as I catch another glimpse of that deeper darkness in his eyes. The one that makes me feel like I’m being watched.

Hunted.

Like I’m being circled in slow, prowling strides I somehow haven’t registered until this moment.

He wraps his hand around my wrist and crumbles my cupla into a scattering of pieces that fall to the floor like pebbles.

I gasp and shove back a step, looking at all the bits of blue and gold littering the floor as I tuck my hand against my chest and rub my bare wrist.

So beautifully bare.

I could cry, a feeling that quickly dissolves into confusion when I look up and see Rhordyn breathing deep and hard, his broad shoulders seeming to swell.

And his eyes …

They’re black holes I’m certain I could fall into.

“Answer me this, Milaje.” He cracks his neck, bunching his hands into fists, stretching them out. “Why would one walk willingly into a coupling ceremony with someone who soldered themself to one’s wrist?”

My eyes widen as I stare at him, a tangle of words sitting on my slack tongue.

How does he even know I made it to the ceremony?

“You reek of his blood,” he snips out, and I frown. “Your palm, Orlaith. In Bahari, part of their culture is to mix blood during their perverse coupling ceremonies.”

My heart slams to a stop, gaze dropping to the strip of silk wrapped around my hand. I feel my eyes glaze, dazed snippets of the ceremony sifting to the surface:

The sharp slice on my palm before Cainon took my hand, his slicked with something wet and warm.

“Talk to me, Milaje.”

I blink at him.

What does he want me to say? That I walked into that ceremony uncertain whether or not my plan would work? That I’m haunted by thoughts of what could have been had that doping fog not worked through my system in time for me to navigate the coupling? To have the wherewithal to coax Cainon into a poisonous kiss and prevent him from—

No.

Perhaps he wants me to tell him about how I almost choked to death on liquid bane? That all I could think about was that I was going to die a failure? That the little girl in the cell was going to die with unquenched hope in her heart, perhaps believing the filthy, vile words I wove for Cainon to earn me a second chance to set her free?

Perhaps he wants me to tell him I walked into Calah’s feeding arena wearing tears of relief because I didn’t want to continue living in a world where he didn’t exist?

Or maybe he wants me to talk about how I ripped off my necklace on that pier and tried to kill Cainon? About how fantastically I failed to end the twisted, selfish man because I’m broken.

Cursed.

Because I leach all the goodness from the world but leave the ugly remains.

Does he want me to tell him that I looked at death and laughed because, in that moment, I truly believed Cainon was about to slay a monster just as worthy of death as himself?

Avoid.

I spin, moving toward the sink where I turn the faucet, the pipes groaning for a good few moments before water finally dribbles free. “I’ve got nothing to say,” I murmur, filling my cupped hands. I splash my face, then run my wrist beneath the dribble, watching my blood swirl down the drain. “Do you want me to put any of this in a cup, or is it tainted now?”

I hate myself the moment the words leave my lips, but it’s easier to attack than it is to defend.

“Don’t deflect,” he growls, and I slash a look at him over my shoulder. He’s standing there with his arms crossed, staring at me from across the room. “There are things strangling you, and you’re letting them.”

I break our stare-off and rip the bind from my hand, toss it in the sink, then scrub the cut so hard it bleeds. “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really?”

I shake my head, lathering my hand with a bar of soap.

“Every time you stuff something down, you tighten that noose,” he grinds out, and I scrub deeper … deeper. Watching more blood swirl down the drain. “Or maybe that’s exactly what you want?”

Avoid.

I cup my trembling hands beneath the dribble of water I splash against my cheeks again. “You’re wrong.” I grab a cloth beside the sink and dig my face into it, scrubbing hard. “I’m perfectly fine.”

My tone is firm.

Dismissive.

A full fucking stop.

His body aligns with my spine, and my heart bolts. Lowering the cloth, I see his hands gripping the sink either side of me, caging me in.

His lips skim my ear like a blow of winter wind, stealing my ability to think straight as shivers erupt down the side of my neck and across my bare shoulder, exposed by the gaping neckline of Rhordyn’s oversized shirt. Feeling his eyes on me, I look up to meet his gaze in our reflection, the sun now sunk beneath the canopy, turning the windowpane into a perfectly reflective surface.

“Lie to me again,” he murmurs, delivering the threat with such poised precision I feel it slide down my spine like an icy blade. “I dare you.”

It’s too much. Too heavy.

Too intense.

I close my eyes, cutting myself off, ignoring every cell in my body that’s screaming for me to lean into him. For me to weave my hand up around the back of his neck and pull him down until our lips are a clash of fire and ice.

Not mine—I ruined our chances. I’ll ruin him.

Again.

Avoid.

His cold hands settle around my upper arms, his voice too soft when he says, “You need to find a way to shed the weight of your damage, Orlaith. Or it will drag you under.”

Then he leaves.

I buckle the moment the door snips shut, arms stretched up and clinging to the edge of the bench as I draw slow, steady breaths through my tightening throat. In through my nose, out through my mouth …

I’m already under.

* * *

Iopen the door, his stare scraping across my skin the moment I exit the cabin. Avoiding his eyes, I pluck a path through the grass until I’m standing in the ring of firelight, looking up at the billowing plume of smoke rising to kiss the stars.

My heart is a wild, restless sprite caught in a cage …

You need to find a way to shed the weight of your damage.

Feeling his icy perusal trace down my arm to the shears hanging from my hand, I drop my gaze.

He’s sitting on one of the logs, elbows on his spread knees, hands clasped, watching me from beneath the thick, dark, coiled shelf of his hair—all roughly hewn perfection.

He’s never appeared more real and reachable than he does right now.

And I’ve never felt further away.

“I need help with something.”

He nods.

I chew my bottom lip. “You’ll probably think it’s silly …”

“Try me,” he says, voice thick. Like the words are spoken through molasses.

“Can you …” I break his stare, looking down at the shears in my hand as a lump forms in the back of my throat that’s hard to swallow past. “Can you cut my hair?”

The words hang in the air between us, like they’re suspended on the end of strings. When I can’t take the silence anymore—my cheeks so hot I’m certain they’re blazing redder than the crackling embers—I see the tips of his boots kiss my toes.

I hadn’t even noticed him stand.

He reaches down, easing the shears from my tight grip.

Clearing my throat, I step around him, lowering onto the log he was sitting on a moment ago and pushing my hair back from my shoulders. I brushed it inside, got all the tangles out until it was a sheet of golden silk, then vomited into the sink, Cainon’s past words pinching bits of my breath until I felt like I was going to pass out.

You will never cut this, do you understand?

I realized Rhordyn is right.

I’m not the same person I was. I have new scars and cracks in places that weren’t there before. The soles of my feet are splintered from a field of thistles I sprinted through to get here.

I no longer enjoy weaving my fingers through the heavy lengths, or draw safety and satisfaction from it hanging around me like a shield. Instead, it reminds me of ugly things that made my skin crawl. Made me feel powerless and trapped. Like my voice had been snipped.

Like my body was no longer mine.

I hate it.

I want it gone.

Rhordyn crouches before me, and I dash a tear from my cheek, dropping my stare to the ground.

“How short?”

“I don’t care.”

He reaches forward, hooking his finger around a thick length of hair and pulling it over my shoulder so it’s draped between us like a tether. “Are you sure?”

I nod, swatting another tear like it’s an annoying bug that won’t stop crawling down my cheek.

Positive.

“You don’t look sure, Milaje.”

“Do it,” I rasp, and risk a glance at his eyes.

Silver.

Breathtakingly silver.

That single look plunders my soul and takes my breath away. Challenges me to hold it.

He lifts the shears and cuts.

A soft wave of relief splashes upon me, and I release a shuddered sigh as a two-foot rope of hair flops limply in his hand.

“This okay?”

I nod, reaching up to pinch the shorter piece, rubbing my thumb back and forth across the severed ends …

This is perfect.

“Keep going.”

He sets the slack length on the ground and pulls another piece forward, snipping again, freeing me in quiet severs.

I look up into his eyes, but his brow is pinched, his gaze honed in concentration.

This massive, formidable, powerful man who can claw his way back to life with a talon through his chest … he’s cutting my hair, so utterly focused I think the sky could fall and he wouldn’t even notice.

A smile tips my lips, another tear slipping down my cheek.

His gaze shifts, narrowing on my mouth, then up to my eyes, something flashing in the depths of his. “There she is,” he whispers—the words so quiet I wonder if he meant to say them aloud.

If he even realizes he did.

He pushes to a stand and moves around the back of me while cool relief swirls inside my chest, soothing all the raw and ruined bits like a balm.

The blunt metal edge tickles my spine every time he opens the shears to capture another piece, kindling my skin with a burst of goosebumps as he cuts … cuts … taking healthy bites of my hair. Littering the grass with tainted twirls of gold.

I picture coils of thorny self-hatred withering in their place; each snipped strand a severed touch.

A loosened smile.

A purged lie.

Each tumbling tangle a weight lifted from my laden soul, pulling weeds of regret from my ribs, my heart.

He snips another heavy length free, and I feel it tumble down my back while another thorny vine wilts inside my chest, loosening my lungs.

My breath.

“I’m not very good at this.”

I smile again. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

He moves around me, and I tuck the smile away before he can see it. Crouching, he frowns as he reaches behind the back of my neck, then pulls what’s left of my hair forward, and I can tell he’s trying to be gentle by the way he moves—like a giant cradling a mouse, careful not to squish it by accident.

“It’s much shorter on the right,” he murmurs. “If you hate it, I can even it up …”

I see the unsaid words in his eyes. In the way he smooths the strands with a proud sort of fondness.

He likes it.

That alone makes me want to keep it this way.

“No, I love it.” I comb my fingers through the sides, the left still long enough to reach my armpit. “I’m not changing a thing,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

He nods and sets the shears down, crouching by the stockpot to stir the stew. Oblivious to the fact that he just loosened one of the many chains bound around my chest.

Oblivious to the fact that I just fell even more in love with him.

We’re two monsters in the dark, painful secrets lodged between us like dual-tipped spikes. I can’t move any closer without hurting him, and I won’t.

Not again.